What shocked her most when she looked at his photograph in the local paper was how changed he had become. It was just over six weeks since he had set out to post his letter but he looked unfeasibly tall, and at ease with himself. He still wore his waterproof jacket and tie, but his hair was tangled in a mop on top of his head, a mottled beard sprang from his chin, and his skin was so dark she had to keep staring at the photograph to find traces of the man she thought she knew.

THE UNLIKELY PILGRIMAGE OF HAROLD FRY read the caption. The article described how a retired man from Kingsbridge (also home to Miss South Devon), in walking to Berwick without money, phone or maps, was proving himself a hero for the twenty-first century. It ended with a smaller photograph captioned THE FEET THAT WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES, and showed a pair of yachting shoes similar to Harold’s. Apparently they were enjoying record sales.

The trail of blue thread crept its passage on Rex’s map north from Bath, in a route that touched Sheffield. She calculated that if he kept going at this pace, he might reach Berwick within weeks. And yet despite his success, despite also the flourishing of her garden, and the friendship with Rex, not to mention the letters of support that arrived from well-wishers and cancer victims every day in the post, there were times when Maureen felt bereft. It seemed to come at her from nowhere. She could be making a pot of tea, and suddenly the solitariness of her single cup would make her want to scream. She never told Rex, but on those occasions she returned to the bedroom, drew the curtains and, lying under the duvet, she wailed. It would be so easy to stop getting up. To stop washing. To stop eating. Being alone required such constant effort.

Out of the blue, a young woman rang Maureen to offer her services as a PR representative. She said that people wanted to hear her side of the story.

“But I don’t have one,” said Maureen.

“What do you think of what your husband is doing?”

“I think it must be very tiring.”

“Is it true there are marital difficulties?”

“I’m sorry, who did you say you are?”

The young woman repeated that she worked in public relations. It was her job to present the general public with the most sympathetic picture, and to protect her clients. Maureen interrupted to ask if she minded holding for a moment. There was a photographer standing on her bean plants, and she needed to tap at the window.

“There are many ways I can help,” said the young lady. She mentioned emotional support, breakfast-television interviews and invitations to B-list parties. “You only need to name what you want, and I can fix it.”